A Personal Demon of a Not So Saintly Man
by Dominique Sotto
Summary: Lan Farlong took the ‘wise’ in the ‘wise***’ the wrong way. Maybe he’s just a touch too obsessed with winning and the definition of poetic justice. Maybe he will stop at nothing to get his way. But he is darn good-looking. If he says so himself.
1. Chapter 1

In the past few days I started to grow a little frustrated by being pushed into things. Not that I've particularly enjoyed it before, but you know what I mean. Well, maybe I was more irritated by it than I've thought. I wiped blood off my spear and poked the guard's lifeless body with the toe of my boot. An unnecessary gesture. We've made quite a thorough job of the three guards. When I said we, I meant yours truly, the dwarf who wanted to become a monk (don't ask), and the red-head we've just met.

The red-head slipped past me, kneeled over the guard and expertly cut a rather worn pouch off his belt. She weighed it on her palm, and her "Pfft," was louder than the jingle of coins inside. If it was left to the guards, she'd be making rather ugly screams by now, I reckoned. Or was dead instead of them. That's poetic justice for you.

"My lady—" I started. No, I am not a complete moron, but it was either that, or 'my child' in my line of work. And I am against taking a paternal tone with the girls I might end up bedding.

"Neeshka," a baleful look accompanied that revelation, "the name's Neeshka. It might mean one thing or another on the Lower Planes, but I have no desire to spent time and find out."

"Oh, pardon my ignorance." She nodded, relieving the other two corpses from their earthly possessions.

"Neeshka." Her name didn't suit her at all. It told nothing of the dare in her eyes or the energetic tap of her tail. That one had fiendish blood in her, alright. If you wonder how I knew, well, the hair on the back of my neck prickled, and I have a drop or two of celestial blood. How's that for a simple explanation? If you are the sort that requires something more tangible, well, the girl also had red eyes, neat little horns and a tail.

"I am not used to be robbed by the very people I save," I said firmly.

"New things every day, huh," she giving me a side-way glance. I must admit I wouldn't have been all that impressed either. At least with my equipment.

Yeah, my foster father is an elf, and I am not. However, if your imagination helpfully sketched you an image of a noble elven king raising a mysterious celestial foundling in the depth of his sacred heartwoods, you need to keep it in check. My father, Daeghun Farlong, ranged for a backwater human village of the West Harbor, and the most royal decisions he made were which furs to sell to which peddler. Pardon me, that would be _to send me to sell_… you get the drift. So, trust me, when the time came to send me off on this perilous quest, he did not lead me to a secret cave full of riches and presented me with a mithril chain-mail and a Moonblade.

Oh, no. My, shall we say, _heirloom_ armor was old (and not in a flattering 'ancient vibe' way), and despite the smith's best efforts showed that I was taller and wider in the shoulder than my father. I carried a bow more out of sentimental reasons than because it was deadly in my deft hands. The duskwood spear though… well that I knew how to handle, and it was the only truly valuable I had.

As for my personal qualities, well, that was more promising. Neeshka had me at a disadvantage – she obviously had met other aasimars before, while she was the very first tiefling I ran across. She didn't gape, just appraised my eyes, too light, too yellow for a pure-blood primer. Yes, my eyes do glow in the dark. Well, a little. Be kind, that's all I have to show for my fabled celestial heritage. You won't miss it though, because on the whole I am rather dark or skin and hair. The effect is striking, particularly where the women are concerned, or so Amie led me to believe when she was in the mood to retell the village girls' gossip to me. Before I verified it a time or two… but never with Amie if you are curious. Amie was different. She was a friend.

I suddenly missed Amie. Her giggles and her childish enchantments, her blond braids, her… presence. When someone you played with since childhood is mercilessly killed by a mysterious mage right out of the Nine Hells or beyond, it does something to you. It leaves a gap. A gap that only revenge could fill. If I ever doubted my calling before Amie's demise, now I was certain. Poetic justice was what I craved…

I don't know why looking at Neeshka made me miss Amie. I just don't. But while I was brooding on it, the red-head finished her inspection.

"Look," she said, "why don't we split it in halves –"

A quick look at the dwarf. Then an even quicker sigh.

"All right. In thirds. And I come with you. Please? I can't very well walk into the Fort Locke on my own now with that invisibility potion proving a dud, and I have to eat, and you… well, you can use some help." She gave a sideway glance to the dwarf. "Yeah. Help."

My monk-aspiring companion, Khelgar, winced: "Lan, don't go taking the demon girl along. She's trouble. We've already killed guards over her. And by the way she's been sneaking about, she is a thief to boot."

"True. But you are not a pot of honey either. If you've said yes, I would have left her to her own devices. But since you've said no, I must let her join us. It's poetic justice, friend." Khelgar grunted. I was starting to get an impression that he did not enjoy the beauty of the abstract concepts. The gap between him and the monkhood was somewhat larger than the Great Rift. Well, very deep and very wide, in case I messed up my geography.

To Neeshka I said: "You can come with me. My name is Lan Farlong, and the dwarf styles himself Khelgar. He wants to be a monk, and it's not my fault."

Neeshka rolled her eyes and mumbled something about hoping I wasn't some damned priest. Well, on that account the girl unfittingly named Neeshka was out of luck. But she looked happy enough as the three of us made our way uphill towards the gates of the small outpost called Fort Locke. Maybe she was really hungry. More likely it was my charm and poise.

I liked Neeshka well so far, but Khelgar had a point, that would be unwise of me to ignore. I resigned to share the loot as soon as we got to some hellhole of an inn. Why, with the guards' coppers we might even be able to afford to stay there.


	2. Chapter 2

**My Grand Entrance to Fort Locke.**

Fort Locke created a mixed first impression with its muddy track, the unmistakable offal stench, and the commendable wooden palisade. The logs already lost their warm hue under the onslaught of the elements. Wood just doesn't age gracefully in the great outdoors. Even the town's one claim to liberal arts – the rough carving of two arms bound with a rope – was starting to crack and what I judged to be red dye was peeling off of it. It did not have a neglected air about it exactly, but the upkeep was for function, not nicety. It was on the gates of a fort after all.

"So, Khelgar," I started conversationally, "do you reckon it was carved with an axe?"

The dwarf squinted at the masterpiece: "Might be. Chisel's more likely."

The guard at the gates gave me a hateful look. Fort Locke expected hordes, all right, but they figured the art connoisseurs would be few and far between. A gamble, if you ask me. Speaking of the games of chance, Neeshka slipped in hooded, quiet, while I ponderously and loudly revealed my doubts about the chisel to more glares and frowns from the good soldier. I had to remember for the future how quick the girl was. The thought put a grin on my face, so I took my first steps through the Fort smiling.

And why would not I? I write this memoir long after the events, a man with more experience behind my belt than I care to admit. Yet, even my young self would have no part of the 'peasant boy in a town for the first time' routine.

Firstly, but for its wall, Fort Locke was no different from the West Harbor. I was raised in a village, but I was not raised a village idiot.

Secondly, I left you in the dark regarding what had happened to me before the dwarf and I met the redhead. Well, read on.

About a tenday before I set out, my village – the West Harbor, yes?- was attacked by the other-worldly creatures. Vicious bastards they were too: bladling, druegar, and a scarred mage who killed Amie. It was not nearly as much fun as it sounds my very first real battle… but I digress (I do it a lot lately. Senility, you understand).

After defeating the intruders, my father, Daeghun, sent me to retrieve an artifact, a silver shard of some kind. The all-important silverware was hidden in a local bog. Not under a grassy hillock, obviously. The Mere, if you like the romantic words for mud and decay, cradled a ruin thousands of years old in its slimy embrace.

Hard to believe, I know, but stick with me. The silver shard, the bog, the ruins, the outsiders - it will all make sense in the long run, and you can console yourself with a thought that it will take you far shorter to piece it together than it did me. Much shorter, I am sure, since I am spoon feeding you the choicest bits. Frankly, I am already telling you more than Daeghun had revealed. Though he did hint that we were attacked because of that very shard. He had to. Otherwise, sending me to the bog would have looked a touch more than pointless.

As a dutiful son, and a curious youth to boot, off I went to the bog, with Bevil in tow. Bevil was another friend of mine, and he didn't die. It took a lot of work on my part to keep it from happening, and every healing incantation I could muster back in the day. But he didn't die. Just Amie.

We hopped from a grass tuff to a grass tuff, holding our noses, and taking a swing at a lizardman once in a while. Killing them. We thought we were becoming pretty good at it. Bevil even chatted a little about enrolling with the Neverwinter forces. Well, he had shoulders for it, and little wit. Me, I could see numerous trade-offs for seeing the world as a soldier. For starters, wars manage to turn the most picturesque places into the small-scale Nine Hells, and the preoccupation with saving one's own skin detracts from sightseeing. And when the wars aren't on, a soldier's life is the many shades of boring. I was just starting to explain it to Bevil when we came upon the ruin.

I will spare you the account of Bevil's and mine meandering through what must once have been a dungeon of a great palace complex, mostly because I can't remember much of it. Echoes through the dump halls, lizardmen's arrows knocking off crumbling mortar next to my head, the enormity, the overwhelming enormity of the place… if you've ever been to a place like that, you could easily imagine it, and if you haven't… stay home, friend, stay put and stay out of troubles.

Yes, a few thousand years back, people in my parts didn't content themselves with log cabins and a couple of paintings in Lathander temple. They knew beauty and grandeur.

You might be surprised that I didn't scale the ruins as a boy, but I have never been that kind of a boy. When my father took me hunting, I saw how difficult it was to kill a quail or a rabbit. I quickly figured out that killing a lizardman would be that much more difficult, even impossible at my age. So, I was not among boys and young men who ran off, to never return and provide a decade or so long deterrent to everyone else. In West Harbor, the goodwives have long memory, and far longer tongues.

This very goodwives still tell the story of Bevil and me _coming back, _dirty, bloody, with a bright metal sliver tacked behind my belt (not to mention a score of ragged trinkets taken off the dead lizardmen as trophies). They still click their tongues at Daeghun for sending the _boys_ to do _men's_ job. But I was the man (or the boy, if you wish) for the job.

My memories are skewed by what came after, but I think that the very moment the lizardmen chieftain handed over the silver shard, I knew I had a destiny to fulfill. My skin tingled and I thought that the silver looked both like silver and like something _else. _I told so to Bevil, and he replied that it would be just fine once we get to the Lathander's blessed light and out of the bloody dungeon, and the bloody bog.

It didn't.

For starters it wasn't tarnished, and I doubted that lizardmen were good at polishing silver. I decided to keep this thought to myself. And I wasn't at the very least surprised when my father declared that my journey had just begun. I was to take the shard to Neverwinter, to my never before heard of uncle, Duncan.

Ha, that's quite a long scroll, but now you are with me, fresh from my first kills, a mysterious silver shard hidden away on my person, a dwarf and a redhead at my heals, standing there, unimpressed by the Fort Locke.

Just a stop on the way to the glories and wonders of Neverwinter.


	3. Chapter 3

**A Gentleman's Pastime**

I rose with the sun (or close enough, since it was delayed by no more than it took Daeghun to holler for me twice, and I have a very short name); dumped a bucket of the unbelievably cold well water over my head watching the mist float over and away from the creek; ate a mix of dry roots and meat soaked in hot wine, while the itchy shirt clung to my dump skin and Daughun laid out my entire day, till the very moment the sun would go down. The older I got, the more often I tried to squeeze in an unscheduled item here and there, like topping up a bucket of milk from a maid in the barn with a kiss and a cuddle. Still, those innocent deviations were minor, and in their own way as repetitive as the chores.

For all those years of rote, one would have thought I felt elated that night in Fort Locke, with the day of surprises behind me, and another day coming to do whatever pleased me. Yet, after my prayer was done, I sat on the bunk exhausted (for my Lord has answered), and watched snoring Khelgar and red-haired Neeshka with envy. How many years did they have on me of waking up and choosing to do one thing over another? Neeshka in particular… maybe that's why she slept so comfortably, so… cat-like even her tail tucked around her with a tabby's neatness. I yearned for their experience, and watched, and then…

I yearned to slip my palm into the middle of the serene bundle, to learn for myself if the girl's fiendish core was too hot for her to ever need a blanket. Alas, the room I rented afforded no privacy, so Neeshka has seen me to sink to my knees, and I have seen the gnarl in response to my piety. It's better she made her peace with my calling before I came to her.

More importantly than that, killings of the day were inspired and I was rewarded with a new clarity and a surge of power. Take it from an old man: blood spurs on the divine will surer than it does the wolves and the sharks. If you don't believe me about the wolves and the sharks, catch a druid in the grove nearest to you and ask. I am a bit of an authority on the druids, and I assure you, they will give you every crumb on it, and the shadows of the crumbs, and the mold left behind when the crumbs were swept away… But I digress. Old age, you understand.

The night in Fort Locke… yes.

I felt my Lord's will so strongly that I was surprised I was able to stand it without bursting. There was no need to dull the ecstasy by firing up another desire. I fell asleep craving power, and woke feverish with it, and… enough, enough! Those who are not privy to the grace are now skipping forward out of boredom; those who are, they are jotting down their own, more powerful description because my words fall short. The wisest know that _all_ words fall short. They are smiling at my efforts.

The morning came. I made a beeline to the water well in the inn's yard, and dumped a bucket of the unbelievably cold water over my head. The sun wasn't quite up yet, but there was light enough. All I needed was my father beaming at me with pride, or at least relaxing that chiseled jaw of his a touch.

Instead someone giggled behind my back. I do prefer a sharp intake of breath or an alternative respiratory response indicating a loss of poise when a woman spies my glorious behind free of britches, but that particular one looked like she desperately needed a laugh, so I forgave the hilarity.

"My _child_," I said in the way of greeting, "Your troubles are graver than keeping your balance and dignity while getting dressed in public. Or did I miss my guess?"

The giggler's face fell. "Yes," she croaked, and handed me my shirt. It clung more desperately than ever, it itched with the ready enthusiasm, but I was showing less of my perfect manliness to the world.

"I am Liza," the woman said drawing some strength from saying her name out loud, "We are… we were farmers… lost everything to the strange creatures and their fires and swords, but they are demons. It's the humans that cut deeper, Father."

By the end of it, she ran out of the philosophical insights, and I've laced my pants. I gestured for Liza to continue. My new awareness detected something beyond the trite, the _injustice_ done that I _must_ avenge.

I was also pleased to learn that the Nine Hells spawn run amok here. My chances of finding the mage and running my spear through him to avenge Amie were better if it wasn't '_the one time only!_' staged in West Harbour. It beat me why, but I was unconcerned with his reasons to entertain a long term harassment of the piss-poor peasants in the region. After all, stranger and much less logical things had happened in the Realms. Much stranger and much less logical.

"The bandits captured a lot of folks, as we tried to get to the Fort, no doubt to sell as slaves. My husband… my husband's among them. He fought… tried to." Liza sighed. "Here there is a garrison and the walls, but Vallis won't send his men to free the villagers. He says, that with the patrols missing he has too few men as is. I am sure Commander Tann –" she suddenly stopped, and stared at her feet.

I turned around and looked behind me to see who else came to enjoy the sunrise over the Fort Locke's water well. The robes the man was wearing were worn but distinctive. Ilmaater's man. Where Liza was embarrassed, I was mildly annoyed. The Crying God tried to manipulate my Lord, and his priests seem to follow the suit whenever they run into my kind. I don't know how he knew me for what I was, but he did.

"Father Tor," Liza whispered, "forgive me for complaining about my misfortune instead of bearing it."

"Ilmaater hears you, poor Liza, and will grant you strength," Tor said gravely, "yet, it cannot be undone now, I fear."

"Wh-what can't be undone?" Liza asked.

"Go in peace, good woman, it is better you remain ignorant as to what you have unleashed. Pray for your husband and the others. Be at peace with your sorrow…" as Liza shuffled away, Father Tor kept his soulful eyes on me. If he noticed Liza's rubbing her thumb and forefinger in a universal sign of money at me, with a pleading look, he did not show it.

Me, _unleashed_… a strong word, but the right one. I felt compelled by my faith. And the money Liza promised for the rescue.

"When you go, son," Tor sighed, "remember the innocents, and do not inflict pain in the wake of your vengeance."

The man truly credited me.

"Also know that these lost souls committed a blasphemy, by taking a Holy Symbol from me. If you _can_ win it back, returning it to my Temple will be… just," Tor hurried through this, not as embarrassed as Liza, but close enough. We parted with curt nods to one another. Well, he did not credit me much after all. In fact, he thought I was gullible and borderline mocked my faith. I, of course, resigned to turn the hills upside down and inside out to prove my mettle. To Liza, to Tor, to Neeshka… after all her face was glued to the window for a long time now.

"Well, look at you," Neeshka said crossly once I was back in our room, "how come I did not figure you for the Whiny God's pawn?"

"Because I am not," I replied. "If that is settled, wake Khelgar up. We have work to do."

"Wo-o-o-rk?" she wrinkled her nose funnily.

"There is a bandit camp somewhere in the woods," I started.

"Yeah?" Neeshka cocked a curious eye at me.

"Easy money, and bounty for some luckless peasants waiting for the next slavers' caravan," I explained. I hoped it touched the cord. "I'd like to see if any of the locals is a tracker who can get us there."

"Bah, that's easy. I've seen lowlifes' camp in the woods, can't imagine there are more than one bunch of them 'round here. Slim picking and all that. Now, in Neverwinter, why, that's when you pick and chose – Can I have a catnap now that I saved us oodles of time? You can pretend looking for a… a trapper, _father_."

"You can show the way," I made it a statement, not a question. "Now."

"Fine!" Neeshka yelped, "you've ruined my sleep anyways, trooping out of here like… like a wild boar! And the ugly dwarf's never stopped snoring!"

That last one was the honest truth. Neeshka kicked Khelgar in the rear. Once, twice... more, until the silence finally descended upon us. The dwarf sat up, stretching and yawning and rubbing his eyes with a kid's innocence. Neeshka's red eyes attempted to drill a hole through my head.

"What did I miss?" Khelgar asked looking at us with a grin.

"We are going to free us some slaves," I replied.

"What? Why?" asked Khelgar

"It's a gentlemanly pastime," I said, "Everyone's doing it. Hurry, you are about to miss breakfast and one heck of a fight."

"NEVER!" Khelgar roared. "The fight, is it on before or after breakfast?"

"After, you barrel of hair," Neeshka responded immediately, "or at least I hope so. No food after no sleep won't fly."

"Well, you keep your hood up, demon girl, or we'll get one during, like as not," Khelgar retorted.

I sighed and picked up my pack. The inspiring words about poetic justice, camaraderie and glory seemed inappropriate in a stinky room in Forte Locke, with three misfits setting out to take on an unknown number of outlaws. I just said: "Let's go." And tried to figure out just how long Neeshka watched from the shadows.


	4. Chapter 4

**A Bow for the Lady**

Army has its uses. It's just hard to apply it properly. Imagine a village smith using a Thunderbolt Hammer of Lightening to fit a horseshoe… now avert your gaze from the remnants of the imaginary horse, and let's limp along.

_I (or rather a younger, cockier version of me) is about to exit Forte Locke, remember?_

Khelgar's just delivered a speech on the subject of milksops for breakfast. I recommended staying with the watered ale, but he just had to have something in his belly. Neeshka had milk. The stuff of legends, you understand.

I am a hopeful man, so on our way to the gates, I stopped to chat with one Lieutenant Vallis Anton and offered him a chance to cover himself with glory by joining our stroll through the forest. I could tell at once that Lieutenant was not at all fond of a tall and darkly handsome stranger intruding on a morning contemplation of his rather miserable domain. Some men have to rule over something, even if it is a midden heap.

"Lieutenant," I started cheerfully, "I am Lan Farlong. My company is setting out to clear the bandits' nest and free their captives. Will the brave guards of Forte Locke march with us?"

"Company?" Lieutenant made a show of counting us. "Oh, three's a company, alright." As he laughed at his joke, I made to move past him. He slapped his paw on my shoulder. "If you know what's good for you, _son, _you'd stay out of the woods. There are things out there now that kill men who can wipe the floors with you… and company."

I kept going, let his hand slide down my back. Gentler, than I would have preferred. Neeshka and Khalegar followed me in silence for once.

"Don't expect me to come to your rescue, fools! I am not _Commander_ Tann." Anton did not know Neeshka they way I did, so he assumed he was getting the last word in.

"Nope, you're not," Neeshka whirled around quick as a fox, "I hear _he_ was a brave man."

"Oh, sure. And _he_ made a brave corpse," Vallis parried gleefully. "So did his men, I am certain. _I_ chose to protect those I can. My men. These poor souls." His hand encircled the fort. At this moment he was exactly what he wanted to be. A Master of the Midden Heap. Not too big, of course, but warm and cozy enough.

And, as menial as he was, he was also an usurper.

"That's prudent, Sir," I nodded, "a pity you can't hold the Commander's position till your predecessor's death is established beyond any doubt."

"'Tis only a matter of time," Vallis tried to appear nonchalant, but I sensed his fear. _Tann could be alive, they could promote someone brighter when the pressure is off, they – _

I pressed on: "If you tell me where Commander Tann was heading with his last patrol, I might look for his martyred remains on my way."

"Commander Tann planned to investigate rumors about strange creatures at the graveyard. You have my authorization to search the crypts," Vallis' sneered at me, "but I suggest you refrain from grave robbery. Might be these corpses want to keep their trinkets."

I assured the brave Lieutenant that sacrilege does not appeal to me (I thought I heard Neeshka groan into her hood) and led my company through the gates at last.

"Follow me," Neeshka said briskly taking her bearings.

I dropped my palm on her shoulder and turned her towards the beaten path. "This way first, m'lady."

"Graveyard?" Khelgar chuckled. "Isn't it a tad premature?"

"Are you mad?!" Neeshka's pent-up frustration erupted like a small volcano. "Calling this Vallis a rat would be an insult to rats, and you want to help him?!"

My ears still ringing, I started walking towards the graveyard. I did motion for the twosome to follow.

Neeshka raced after me, yelping: "I mean, he's even had the gall to forbid the looting! That's sacrosanct!" And, in a heartbeat: "You'll see, we'll come back, he'll arrest us for sacrilege!"

"Not if we bring Tann back, demon-girl. He'll be fairer man, unless I miss my guess," Khelgar objected.

"I'm not asking you! I'm asking _him_! Hey, whatever did you do this for?!" She actually pulled my sleeve.

"I like talking to people," I answered simply and she froze with her mouth half-opened. I had her attention. SoI put my pack back on the ground, untied the staff, and unrolled the oiled rags. The noble wood glowed in sunlight a beautiful shade of silvery-gray.

"Here, a bow for the Lady. You will make a better use of it."

With it, I proffered a girl I've met mere hours ago, a _demon-spawn girl_, my heirloom bow and a dozen of arrows. Sometimes a man has to take his chances.

"Sheesh, thanks," Neeshka said both gruffly and quietly. I liked that she did not try to refuse the gift. There was a delight in her eyes. Obviously, this was a lady that didn't question gifts, but always questioned men who gave it. Better than the opposite, if you ask me.

"Well, come along, Khelgar. Graveyard awaits, and all that," She chivvied Khelgar who fingered his axe thoughtfully. Sharp weapons were little use against many undead. "You want to fight with your hands and feet, right? Gotta start somewhere." Khelgar's face didn't brighten up at the thought of clubbing rotten flesh with his fists.

We made our way quickly towards the Fort's Last last resting place. The gates were built by the same craftsman who erected the Fort itself. Or maybe his loyal pupil. Or maybe it was the style they favored in those parts… Never you mind.

Once we've stepped out of the dappled shadow of the trees, and through the gates into the peculiar landscape of graves, the morning sun was no more. An unnatural darkness thickened with every step we took.

"There better be lootin'," Neeshka muttered and stringed my… _hers_ bow, "A lot of lootin'." Her words must have struck a cord, because a group of bones, whiter somehow in the pitch-black, stirred and stacked itself into a skeleton, two skeletons… four. An arrow sang… and flew through the rib cage harmlessly. Neeshka cursed, threw the bow down, and produced a small flail I have not noticed in her sack earlier. I saw Khelgar effortlessly crushing a bony wrist reaching for his beard in his wide palm, and then my focus shifted away from my companions.

I looked _beyond_ the bones, groping for the shiver of the energy that made the skeletons advance towards us in an effort to kill, kill, kill… I caught it… and pulled, and twisted, and made a change. Khelgas' bony friend stopped smashing the dwarf, picked a stone, and pounded his former friend into dust. Then it stood in blank amazement, watching Neeshka kick a skull to the side with a practiced blow. Khelgar took the legs from under the last undead and smashed the rib cage for a good measure.

"Ouf", he said, "Are there more?"

"Probb'ly" said Neeshka kneeling and searching the ground. She came up with her arrow, and a couple of small coins. I can't say if the skeletons hide them in their hip joint or in the shreds that used to be the clothes their relatives had buried them in. Again, never you mind.

I wasn't yet fully back to the physical world, so my eyes saw the spiritual energy swirling in the dark. I pointed towards it: "There."

Neeshka squinted: "Whoa, good eyes, _Father_. It's a big one. But you know what they say, the bigger the prize, the bigger the trap… stay behind, lads. And, Khelgar? Breathe quieter, will ya?"

Neeshka crept forward and I lost her slight figure in the dark. Ages passed, and all I could hear were a few faint clicks. I started to imagine that I can feel the heat of her body. Then a soft reddish glow appeared a few feet away from the place where I thought her warmth was. Her eyes.

The door opened quietly, and we finally saw light. Not the cheery light of day, but the troubled, eerie glow of magical flames. By now it was better than the dark. We trooped in. A figure in black turned from the fire towards. It had a black scarf wrapped around its face, and no wonder. I almost chocked on the stench of death and worse.

"Excellent," he said in a clipped, practical tone, "new materials to work with." And his muffled chant filled the air.

The undead came from the halls, extending scary, jerky limbs towards us. Some were white and shiny; some blackened and dry, but most had indescribably ugly rotten flesh hanging off the bones. The advance was morbidly fascinating. It took almost all I've got to shake the stupor off and act. I admit that it did not look like much. I stood still, closed myself to the mayhem around me, even to my companions, and reached for the priest. He was my quarry.

Except he got me first with something that burned my side. I clenched my teeth and blinked tears away… and then I felt it. There was something odd about the power the blighter wielded. It broke through in powerful pulses, but there was a delay of sorts. I was a kitten compared to him when he peaked, but a cougar… well, at least a very large tom-cat when he ebbed. As he was struggling to pull the power back toward him, I prayed to hurt him. It was only a flesh wound, but the man didn't feel pain himself for a while, just inflicted it, so he howled. And while he howled, Khelgar lunged with an entirely undwarven agility and hacked a good chunk off his ear off. The axe stuck in the collar bone for a blink of time, but the priest was done for.

"All right, boys, you finish up here, and I will do some… cleaning," Neeshka said and walked gingerly towards a dim outline of large chests or boxes.

I was laboring on a particularly stubborn skeleton when Neeshka's cheery voice echoed off the walls: "But you must be Commander Tann! WAIT!"

A moment later a tall fellow emerged from the darkness, stripped down to his breeches, barefoot, incredibly dirty, bloody but waving a heavy piece of wood with some force. He even managed to put a blow in before it was all over.

"Commander Tann," he said, and proffered a wide palm to me. I grinned. Lieutenant Vallis' fortunes were about to take a turn to the worse. Commander Tann was a realistic man, who had no qualms about bending a law or two when need demanded.

That night, Neeshka, Khelgar and I camped in the deserted outlaw camp. We were alive and as well as my skill allowed, and the camp was not knee-deep in blood. On Tann's suggestion, we had sent the rag-tag band to join Fort Locke's garrison, side by side with their captives. Whatever the differences in views on personal property, the townsfolk and the bandits shared basic fear and hatred of the unnatural intruders. And that, my friends, is a powerful thing.

I was as sure as ever about my calling, after the pieces fit so neatly together. I wanted justice for Tann, and even though the magical fires did not erupt from the ground and lit my way, I still walked the path, and fought for it… and made it right.

My euphoria was almost complete. Almost.

You see, my personal demon probed the dead cleric with the toe of her boot and scowled. Then she kneeled, ran her hands over his body, searching for pockets and pouches and she kept looking and looking at me. Finally satisfied with the inspection, she tossed a couple of frayed scrolls my way.

"Your sort of stuff."

It was.

I pondered for a while if anything in the world at all could change her attitude. Having have failed to find a solution, I closed my eyes and sighed. Tomorrow we were setting out for Highcliff. Tomorrow will be another day.


	5. Chapter 5

**Maidens, Glades, Kalach-wha-cha-cha?**

I woke up because something _swooshed_ over my shoulder. A muted curse, a thwack, then a _swoosh_ again—

"Will you be still, demon-girl?" Khelgar grunted. "How would you like me making a racket when I stood my watch?"

"Much better than your snorting when you ain't," Neeshka called back testily… and thwack, thwack, thwack went her tail. "By Tymora, whose bright idea was it t' sleep here, in the bandits' camp?!" The words weren't muted in the least this time.

I set up and stretched: "Mine."

"Figures," Neeshka muttered sotto voice again, " I haven't seen a single blood-thirsty monster to fly your way. Oh, bother!"

Thwack. Thwack. Thwack.

"Try to understand the critters, Daughter. I've been around these woods for years, but your blood is new. The novelty will wear off." I enjoyed my sagacious tone, and yet something twanged unpleasantly when I called her _daughter_. She rolled her eyes and started to shake her blankets with an angry determination.

I consoled myself with the thought that our breakfast arrangements that day were the simplicity itself and weren't subject to a discussion. We tightened our belts and set off speedily through the whispering woods in hopes to meet the track to Highcliff only a short distance away from the camp. I am not a tracker my Father is, but I followed game trails often enough in my boyhood to chuckle at my companion's palpable relief when the wet leaves parted to show the grassy ditch lining the road.

"After you, my Lady," I gestured to Neeshka ("my Lady" sounded better, or, rather, more appropriate, than "daughter").

"You just can't wait for me to break a leg, or be a wolf-bait or something, ain't you, _Father_?" Neeshka wasn't inclined to accept my peace offering.

"Without me, my bravos, you would be circling the camp." I smiled and hoped that it came out as smug as a part-celestial being could manage.

It was a glorious moment. The red and yellow eyes locked, bent on producing sparks, thunder and mayhem! The air vibrated, the glow-

"HELLS' TITS!" Khelgar roared.

Alas, the glow didn't have anything to do with my demonic lady. The gates opened up, spilling bladelingd and gray dwarves… again. They barely got their footing under them, when they screamed this ridiculous battle cry "_Kalach-cha!_" and rushed me.

I reached with my hands up towards the sky, calling for protection, and just before the energy shielded me, went through me, I finally, finally knew that _Kalacha-cha_ meant _me_. Not a name I would have chosen for a child, that's for sure. A spell flowered…not my spell. Through the blur of energy I saw a maiden turn into a badger and jump a gray dwarf- Not now, not now- Must focus- and I did. Only a few days ago, a green-eyed girl like that morphing into a furry creature would have broken my prayer. Good thing she waited to make her grand enterance.

My reader, I expect that at least some of the bards' tales had reached your ears, as pervasive as they are. So, yes, you are guessing right, it was Elanee the Elven in front of me. And, no, I have not had her for my lover, despite the abominable couplets subscribing to the opposing theory. I have never loved her or dreamed of her despite the overwhelming frequency with which elves figure in the adolescent fantasies of every other race. I was raised by an Elf. And I wasn't one. In the years when other boys found their fathers first mockingly, then seriously counting them among men, I was realizing that for my father I never will be one. Not because I was five or twelve or twenty. But because I am, and I will remain a _Non-Quessir_. I first accepted that Daeghun Farlong could enumerate flowers in a meadow beyond the hill by scent alone; track a mice on the moonless night by sound. It was harder, much harder to accept the knowledge that my Father remembered the minutiae of every day of his two-hundred something years. And it was not until I was sixteen and saw him washing his stern face in the creek water full of winter ice that I finally accepted that he did not simply remember; he re-lived that minutiae in his reveries. I would never forget how far away he could walk from the present and still live it. I do not know what he reveried about that morning, but I shied away with a certain knowledge that a _Quessir_ is beyond my experiences.

Anyway, as the road dirt soaked up the unfamiliar blood, as I cam out of my trance, as Khelgar gawked and Neeshka scowled pulling arrows from the corpses, the badger became an elf again. I could now see that she was of a good height for a Quessir, and noted with an amusement the same golden hue to her hair, her skin, and her eyes that the badger's fur had. I clung to that comic connection as she glided towards me, expecting that I will need my sense of humor in our interactions.

"Forgive me," she said (but did not mean it, I was sure of it), "but I saw these… _things_ to attack you. I found I could not simply stand by while you were ambushed – again."

Nine Hells, I did not know where to begin. Luckily, Neeshka did.

"Again? Have you been following us?!"

Elanee nodded imperiously after her words to show she's heard, but addressed herself to me: "I grew up among the druids and have seen you before. You are a peculiar man."

I bowed. At least she did not refer to me as '_thing_'. Among the druids she must have learned to interact with our juvenile kind.

"Well, if you were stalking us, you should know we could handle a few bladlings by ourselves," Neeshka burst out, "so thanks for nothing, and all that. Ta-ta!"

"My name is Elanee," the elven maiden said smoothly, "and I believe there is a good reason we should travel together. The heartwoods are filling with these unnatural creatures. They are defiling both grove and glade. I must confront it, and so do you."

Barefooted and lithe, Elanee walked across the ditch, turned graciously as she reached the trees, and beaconed:

"You were going to Highcliff, Lan Farlong. It is prudent that we proceed as speedily as possible. I shall take the responsibility for leading you through the sacred lands of the Maiden Glade."

See what I mean? It's not arrogance, not exactly. It is the same benevolent tyranny we bestow upon children.

Elanee was the most beautiful woman I have seen until that day. Her voice put flutes to shame. She was even fascinated by me (and didn't bother to hide it). Yet, when her cherry-red lips parted, no matter how full and seductive they were, I heard a Quessir talking to a non-Quessir. Quite a few men fall for women who echo strongly their mothers. Far fewer fall for women or men that resemble their fathers. I am not one of them.

Not that Neeshka needed to know that yet. "Maiden's Glade sounds _very_ appealing," I told my troops and followed Elanee, my eyes glued to the rump that had a misfortune to slim down compared to her badger form.

A muted curse, a thwack, then a _swoosh_ again—

I smiled. That had nothing to do with the bloodsucking insects, or I was a badger-fancier.


End file.
